Monday, September 24, 2012

your boyfriend's boring
like getting the bins in
boring like changing batteries
on bathroom scales
or doing laundry
with no stains to hide

a bore like well stocked sock draws
he's about as big a thrill as cleaning the grill
(again)
exciting as an oil change on a new car
flesh-coloured bras
and a beige coloured everything else

he's that guy at the party, uh...
no one can remember the name of
that guy at the party who turns up early
that guy at the party who leaves early
he's dinner on the table at 6.30
and he’s unworthy of your home cooking

he’s stupid looking
your boyfriend is too tall
his chiselled chin service
doesn't even deserve this
mention in my poem
he's got all the interest
of a dial tone

imaginative as those sweaters he wears
he looks like a tucked in T shirt
couldn't hold a conversation
with two hands
if you told him to

I don't know what he's talking about
he doesn't know what he's talking about
I know everyone's entitled to their opinion
but his opinion is just wrong
and your opinion of him is WRONG

he's like that sequel to a film
no one wanted to see in the first place
David and Margaret give him
no stars
and for once they'd agree
and agree with me

ah look he's just a dork
good for a spoon but not a fork
he fucks politely
he fucks like an amateur
trying not to damage-ya
he fucking fucks like its fucken fucked
he fucking fucks like he fucking SUCKS
inasmuch as he doesn't
and he doesn't know what to do
know how to lick an orgasm
out of you

oh he's a nice guy
nice guys are supposed to finish last
but from what I hear...he uh,
always finishes first
ah that's the worst

you need someone dangerous
to undress in front of
someone who'll be trying
for a grope when you're driving
who gives unsolicited cunnilingus
when you're on the phone to your mum

he's one better than another night
with a hot water bottle
he's what you got
when you settled
for what you can get
your boyfriend was the safe bet

that man has all the charisma of a cold pizza
he makes for story less interesting
than a well planned holiday
a reserved table
a reserved manner
a balanced bank balance
a balanced argument
or a bicycle built for two

he rides a girl’s bike
in fact he is a girl’s bike
like one with streamers an' a basket
and all that girly girl’s bike stuff
all prissy and silly
skinny wheels that go flat
fucks sake, on top a’that...

your parents even like him
that ain’t right
oh yes he's sensible
and yeah he's reasonable
and sure he’s stable
he is uh, clean, well adjusted
a pretty good dresser
also kind and polite

but y’know seriously,

still...

he’s a fucken girl's bike

________________________________________

(...yeah well it's about time I had a word to you about him, better you hear this from me.)

Blueprint for a performance piece. A work in progress to be sure, but one that has long needed a nudge out the nest.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

we once touched at the gloves
the pressure of whole atmospheres
inside us
breathing background radiation
pressing the faceplates together
feet floating
without helmets over our hearts

sunrise in space is so shocking
a line splitting hundreds of degrees
stark night and day
life and the void

we met so far apart
the two of us so tiny
inhospitable in hard vacuum
so solid-scared of falling out here
where there was nowhere
to land
nowhere to hide
yet so hard to find

nothing lives in space between worlds
a vacuum except for memory
and junk on trajectory

this is so much more
than the space we’re suited for
so I retrace an escape velocity
rocketing off again
to try catch you

my lonely planet guide to the stars

_____________________________________

Originally written for an astronomy-inspired gig we did on Earth hour back in May (but heavily drafted this evening) for Stephen Luntz.

The phrase 'solid-scared' some Buddy Wakefield fans may recognise from his poem Pretend (hey, it's a homage, right)

Meanwhile, the opening line is also pretty lifted from a Star Trek episode ~but before you make that face I should tell you that alotta-allota other poems feature similar riffs on trek dialogue, this one's just a little more overt about it. The name of that episode? "We'll Always Have Paris" (case in point ~ the title I used for one of the finest poems I've written)

Anyway, some gigs are coming up, things are being published and it looks like, yes, I've made it out of this Melbourne winter alive. Happy days.

Friday, September 7, 2012

she was writing about men like you
before you were born and isn't fooled
by your under construction sad story

y'want her to believe
you can be one of the club~
that your personality
runs on diesel
burning tyres
and butchered dolphins

y'inner child
is that fucken devil kid
from The Omen

y'feminine side
is Grendel's mother
bloody

that y'sensitive side
is an Echidna's arse
and your only vulnerability
a box of porn
y'don't bother to hide
all that well
in your room

that you've seen some shit
that you've been through shit
an' that y'hate women
'cause they're shit

y'want her to believe that
so that you can believe
that
y'look more like a cage fighter
than a poet

someone said this to you once
and you've held onto it
like a security blanket statement

but just being sad and bitter
missing sex an'
getting upset when people
don't reply to your texts
doesn't make you a hard cunt

she knows you are not a hard cunt

can see the un-hugged mass
y'try cleaving back
when shaving your scalp
sees the softness tense
in the way you sit and says:
you're just a visitor here
mate
one who will not stay long
you will go back
to the good soul
will re-find your smile
and save the children
or whatever it is y'do for a livin'

y'wanna argue back
show and tell
y'scars and fuck'n teethmarks

but you also
wanna believe her
so hard
when she says

you will be alright

flicks her cigarette
like punctuation
to clear the air
after that pronouncement